


Heartlines

by glowstick_of_destiny



Series: Seven Devils [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he looks back on it, though, it makes sense.  Which is worse.  Just makes him want to bang his head on the GCPD standard-issue desk that he still can’t believe is his again for how fucking stupid he was not to put all the pieces together.  Now, they all line up in his mind, fit together like a goddamn jigsaw to spell out one thing: he is completely fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartlines

There’s a surreal moment of clarity where time seem to slow down, and Jim realizes what he’s doing, and that this is likely one of his worst ideas to date. 

Trouble is, this happens a fraction of a second before his fist collides with Harvey’s face. The punch lands squarely. Harvey’s got cop instincts same as Jim, better probably if time in the saddle counts for anything, but he doesn’t see this coming. They’ve been getting along lately, as well as they ever do. And even in Gotham, you don't expect your partner to haul off and take a swing at you unless you insult their mother or something. 

Christ. At least they’re not in the middle of the bullpen. But Harvey’s gonna have one hell of a shiner, and people are gonna have questions. Particularly since they were sent to shake down a skinny bastard for information, couldn’t take either of them in ping pong, much less in a fight. 

Harvey’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has. 

He thought he was getting better. More patient, less like a freshman quarterback with something to prove. Winding up with fewer moments like these that make him sit back and wonder how the fuck he wound up here. Guess not. 

When he looks back on it, though, it makes sense. Which is worse. Just makes him want to bang his head on the GCPD standard-issue desk that he still can’t believe is his again for how fucking stupid he was not to put all the pieces together. Now, they all line up in his mind, fit together like a goddamn jigsaw to spell out one thing: he is completely fucked. 

Oswald quivering, stammering on the dock. Blood on his face, death a few steps behind him. The gun Harvey shoved against his chest heavy in Jim's hand. Welcome to Gotham. 

Oswald pinned against a brick wall not a week later. Voice and body language like a school kid caught out after curfew, scrabbling for a good excuse. Tongue quick as ever, but his eyes, his eyes are different now. Calculating, the only holes in a mask of what he wants Jim to see. Dangerous. 

Oswald covered in blood again, sitting at a table with a red-and-white checkered cloth in Maroni’s restaurant. Looking up at Jim like his goddamn salvation had arrived. “Your friend here told me an interesting story.” Truth, more damning than any lie, pried out of him with harsh steel and a well-placed bet about which direction Jim’s moral compass would point. After, a scalding hot shower that doesn’t wash his sins away, but enough whiskey that he can forget, for a while. 

Oswald on his front steps with a bottle of single malt the night after Barbara left. Fuck if Jim knows how he knew. Doesn’t really want to. Oswald just smiles, hands over the bottle, and heads back down the street. Jim calling back to him. “Come in. Don’t make me drink this all myself.” 

Oswald’s name, mentioned in bullpen gossip. Making quite a name for himself these days. Maroni’s right-hand man. Whispers that that’s not gonna be good enough for him, not by half. Bets on whether he’d actually survive if he was brave or stupid enough to take on Maroni, to try carve his own name on the throne instead. 

Oswald outside his new, smaller apartment the night he got reassigned to Arkham. No liquor in hand this time, which is fine, because Jim’s already had a half a bottle. “You look like shit.” A wry smile, the first that day. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” “The ability to swear, or the irreverence to kick a man when he was down?” “You coming in?” “If you like.” 

Oswald pinned up against a brick wall, breath ragged, legs around Jim’s waist. Leaving separately, quickly. Nothing but a few words tossed back over their shoulders. “This doesn’t mean anything.” “Of course not. Just two friends who've found a mutually agreeable way to blow off some steam.” 

Oswald’s neat script on a package heavy enough that Jim nearly throws out his back carrying it into his living room. “For Gotham’s white knight.” Inside, enough cold case files to keep him busy for months. “What the fuck were you thinking? I look like I need any help getting fired?” “I can’t get a present for an old friend? Besides, this is Gotham. If anyone has the time or wherewithal to find out, a promotion’s more likely.” 

Oswald calling with a tip about a planned prison break. The ringleader isn't mob affiliated, isn't the brightest bulb, but he comes from money and has some contacts in high places. Wouldn't have gotten very far. But they find phone records, written plans, make a few arrests on the outside. Some of them bigger players they'd been trying to nail for ages for other offenses, but there'd never been enough evidence. And his boss is pretty damn happy about it. So’s the chief, and the mayor. Hell, even Jim might be pretty happy right now. 

Oswald’s hand on his scalp, guiding first, then holding on for dear life, his lips stuttering wordlessly. Jim’s knees against cold, wet concrete. Not that he gives a fuck about that right now. A litany of curses on Oswald's lips as he gets close. Between a few words with far too many consonants jammed together to be English, Jim's almost certain he hears his name. 

Oswald with a bottle of champagne the night Jim gets his old job back, along with a long talk from the mayor about how he fucking better have learned to toe the line by now, because they are putting their necks on the line for him here, giving him another chance. “I don’t even like champagne.” “I do.” 

Oswald nowhere for a few days, then a few weeks. No visits, no calls, no texts, no shared information about Maroni’s plans. Not even any rumors in Arkham about what he was up to these days, from guards or patient-prisoners. Jim starts watching the news every night and scanning the papers during his lunch break. Starts wondering if Oswald's still alive. 

Then today. Harvey, shooting the breeze as they walked the few blocks back to the squad car from the strip club with an illegal gambling ring that the perp’s friend frequented. Like hell were they parking nearby and having anyone stick around to talk to them. “Wonder what happened to that Penguin fucker. Might be he’s lying low. But he's about as good at that as you are. My bet's he tried to take down Maroni and that didn't work out so hot for him. Sure would make our lives easier if he bit the bullet, huh? Weight off your back, and even better, give it a little time and Mooney might take a shine to me again, just like the old days. Well, never did like that ass-kissing sonuvabitch much. I say he got what was coming to him." 

And that’s when he’d punched Harvey in the face. 


End file.
